


Stolen Touch

by propangel



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Handcuffed Together, Hurt/Comfort, Phrack Fucking Friday, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 21:39:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19732291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/propangel/pseuds/propangel
Summary: His lips find hers, firm and demanding, tongue sweeping inside her mouth that's already open, waiting for him.





	Stolen Touch

**Author's Note:**

> After a re-watch of one of my favorite "Castle" episodes, this idea popped into my head. I've been working on it a while and meant to post it for PFF, but missed it by a few days because of work. (Sorry)

  


She hates not being in control. Control is what got her through her time in the war and after. It is what gets her through life. This, she can't control. Not in the least. She cannot get away. No escape, no hiding. She feels naked without her dagger and gun. The truth is, she's scared. Not knowing the whys and whos and hows, or having any memories. It makes her queasy, her stomach churning, feeling like she might throw up at any moment. 

She takes a few deep breaths, trying to quell the oncoming panic, in through her nose and out through her mouth. She can't lose it now, not with him tied to her side, not when he relies on her. Even if he won’t admit it. Even if he is the trained officer. She can’t let him down. She feels the need to protect him. He's her partner, her… everything – but she can't think about that right now.

She can't just sit here. She needs to do something. She twists around, trying to get up, but snaps back like an over-stretched rubber band, tethered to his wrist, forgetting for a moment how she is bound to him, her movement entirely out of habit.

"Oww," he winces behind her, hissing through his teeth.

She sits down on the mattress again, her back closer to him so their wrists can relax against their sides within the confines of the handcuffs.

"Sorry, Jack," she acknowledges, tries to stroke his fingers with hers for a moment because she can't twist her hand enough to reach the wrist that she just inflicted pain upon.

They are silent for a few moments; she huffs in frustration, her desire to move assuaged for the time being. So she just sits, listening to his breathing behind her. She can feel the faint warmth of his breath swirling against her neck, and it's strangely comforting. His silence and the rhythm of his breathing tells her he's thinking. When did it happen that she knows him so well?

"How is it we don't remember anything?" He suddenly questions. He's quiet another moment, but then he continues, "I was sure hoping I’d remember every detail when we finally spent the night together." This is said with a teasing lilt, and it makes her smile, just as he intended. Her belly quivers and it startles her, the realization that she missed this, the teasing Jack, the flirting and the innuendos, the fun. He's been so guarded lately with the Sanderson investigation. So careful trying to keep her out of harm's way. When did she get so sappy? She sighs.

"SIS?" he muses. “Kidnapped by the Portsiders? Oh I know," he sounds excited now, "Captain Courageous needs Mata Hari for a mission!"

"Jack," she chuckles, “I don’t see Compton doing something this outrageous to solicit my assistance. I am sure there is a better explanation for our current situation.”

“Perhaps, Miss Fisher," he concedes, but she hears the layers in his voice, the smile, the trust, the admiration. She smiles too, far brighter than the situation calls for, and she twists around trying to look back at him. A searing pain in her back makes her hiss, and his hand is on her immediately, holding onto her side.

"Phryne, what's wrong?"

She takes a deep breath, but realizes now that she's no longer moving the pain only lingers faintly.

"I don't know." She straightens her back carefully, trying to locate where it came from. "The pain is on my lower back, toward the right," she explains to him. "Possibly a stab or a burn."

She grabs her blouse, slightly pulling up the hem along with her camisole. "Can you take a look?"

Chilly air hits her skin and she realizes she didn't think this through. There's a moment with no movement, heavy with silence, weighed by things unsaid. Her heart hammers in her chest. She wavers between wanting to pull her blouse back down and cover up, or ripping it off and baring her skin and soul to him. 

As she’s lost in thought, his fingers are touching her and she has to tell herself to breathe evenly. His left hand is holding on to her, spanning her butt cheek and it tingles, even through the wool of her slacks.

"Oh Phryne," he whispers, soft fingers now tracing the skin on the left of her lower back.

"What is it?"

"It's..." He skims along her skin in circles, ghosts of touches. "A needle mark from what looks to have been a large syringe. The skin around it looks possibly infected, maybe an inch in diameter." She winces when he skims across the rim of the mark, but only a little because it stings and a lot because it's his fingers on her skin, finally, and she forgets how to think.

"Must have been a heavy sedative, I guess," he continues talking but he may as well have been reciting Shakespeare because she feels lulled and she can't concentrate and she wants more. She can't help it when she leans back just a little, leaning into his touch.

"I probably have one too," he rambles on, but his voice is lower now, a dark whisper in the emptiness of the room. His fingers slide along her waist, spanning her sides, slow, barely-there touches, and she bites her lip to keep a moan inside because these are some of her most sensitive spots, and damn how does he know just how to touch her?

"Phryne," he whispers, his voice full of longing and ache that a heavy heat pools within her, unfurling slowly, unraveling her. For this one moment it doesn't matter where she is and why. She doesn't want it to matter. He scoots closer, his front against her back while his hands wander around her waist and along the soft skin of her stomach. His fingers skim and linger, explore and rest, a haphazard rhythm against her body.

Her breathing is heavy, she feels her rib cage lift and fall under his strong hands, and so she lets her head fall back, resting against his shoulder next to his face. Entrusting herself to him.

"Phryne, Phryne, Phryne," he murmurs, and it's like a prayer against the rim of her ear, making her shiver. He worships her with his fingers, running up the sides of her body, exploring along the underside of her bandeau.  
She laces her left hand with his, fingers intertwined where the cuffs have already brought them close, and pulls him tighter against her body.

His lips are on her neck now, soft kisses peppered against the hollow of her collarbone and behind her ear, hot breath skirting along the rim of her ear, and then he pulls her earlobe into his mouth, nibbling and sucking. No amount of biting her lip can hold in a moan now, it's deep and throaty, her bedroom voice.

"Jaaack…," she breathes out, turns her head, feels feverish and she doesn't know what she is asking for until he gives it to her. 

His lips find hers, firm and demanding, tongue sweeping inside her mouth that's already open, waiting for him. She meets him stroke for stroke and just like the last time, the only time they did this before, it spins out of control so quickly that she can barely comprehend it. It's needy and desperate, this kiss, and so achingly perfect.

Sounds of footsteps echo in the distance and they tense, frozen in their embrace. She listens above their heavy breathing, but he still holds her close, not letting her go even an inch. The steps seem to be coming closer in a long empty hallway, and they scramble apart as much as is possible in their condition. She adjusts her blouse, but can’t quite catch her breath quite as easily. She tries to prepare for the battle ahead, tethered to him and with no weapons available except their combined hand-to-hand combat skills.

"Phryne," he takes her chin between his fingers and turns her head so she is looking right at him. "When we get out…" and his voice is serious, dark blue eyes sparkling. This time it won't remain ignored. This time he won't let go.

She takes a deep breath, locks her eyes with his, "When we get out."


End file.
